


The Archer

by ProsperDemeter



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Clint Barton, BAMF Natasha Romanov, BAMF Phil Coulson, Best Friends, Case Fic, Deaf Clint Barton, Dogs, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Pre-Canon, Protective Older Brothers, Slow Burn, Smart Clint Barton, The Author Regrets Everything
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:55:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22349908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProsperDemeter/pseuds/ProsperDemeter
Summary: As a Level Three Phil's given the task of his carreer - bring in the legendary assassin Hawkeye dead or alive. There's only one small problem: SHIELD is targeting the wrong Barton and Phil might just be falling for the world's most dangerous marksman.Or the story of how Phil takes down a gang, helps bring in Trick Shot, survives meeting the Black Widow before she's even on Shield's radar, and recruits a master assassin all in the process of saving a one eyed dog.No dogs were harmed in the process of this story.
Relationships: Barney Barton & Clint Barton, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton/Phil Coulson, Phil Coulson & Melinda May, Phil Coulson & Nick Fury
Comments: 8
Kudos: 74





	1. The Chain

**Author's Note:**

> I like to think of this as a fun mash up story of MCU canon and Marvel Comic fun. Thanks for stopping by and I hope you enjoy it! 
> 
> Updates will be daily (hopefully).
> 
> Chapter title from: The Chain by Fleetwood Mac

The apartment building was practically falling apart at the seams. It had a broken elevator, at least one squeaky stair on each level, bullet holes littered the top of the wall in the lobby, and around four apartments had cardboard boxes in place of windows. Phil was set up on the top floor, room 410, right between the trash room and the building's owner. Directly below him was a single mother with three young kids that were up at the crack of dawn and had a habit of throwing whatever they could at the ceiling throughout the day. The mother spoke horrible English, mostly yelling at the kids in a rapid fluent Spanish. Pets wandered the hallways, Phil could hear anything and everything through the paper thin walls, and it was, oddly, the one building on the entire block that didn't get bothered by the gangs that ran the street they were planted on. Curious - but not curious considering what Phil knew about the place. 

He was staying by himself in the building - housed in an okay one bedroom with a newly updated kitchen that had iffy water pressure on the good days. He had only the equipment that SHIELD bothered to greenlight to undercover ops for missions that were only imperative to the Deputy Director and only got Level Three Agents shoved at them - a bed that was only a little bit better than those in college dorms, a dresser that fit almost no clothes, the bare necessities of pots and pans, paper plates and plastic cutlery, a futon that was uncomfortable to even look at, and a big box television that only had basic cable. SHIELD was kind enough to give him a meager paycheck of only a few hundred dollars every two weeks to buy groceries and after two weeks into the mission Phil was ready to dip into his savings just to live in something close to comfort. 

Phil had met the landlord/owner only once when the power abruptly went out in the whole building on his second night there. Fortunately for Phil, the problem was fixed quickly and efficiently by the owner himself like he had fixed the problem more than once in the one year he had owned the building. Which was only minorly concerning. It was the one time that Phil had met the object of his undercover op - in the dark hallway with a golden retriever separating them without a leash and no light in the hallway to even gauge if he had stumbled into the right person or just another random tenant. 

Phil and the owner were the only two that lived on the top floor of the building. While it was frequented by the other tenants to throw out their trash Phil had assumed unhelpfully that he would run into his target more than he actually did. Joanna, the Middle Eastern woman on the second floor that Phil had had breakfast with once or twice in the common area while waiting for a taxi to bring them to work, had said that the owner made it a point to know each of his tenants and was, in fact, the keeper of the one eyed golden retriever that roamed the halls aimlessly. Lucky, she called the dog. Clint, she called the owner. When Phil had asked about the real target of his mission she had looked at him like he was crazy. "Clint's got no one 'cept us." She had said after a long pull of her coffee. "Well, us and that dog." 

Odd, Phil had thought. 

There was no way that SHIELD had messed up their intel and sent Phil into tail the wrong Clint Barton. In fact, Phil had done a good deal of the intel himself and he trusted Deputy Director Fury's words and assurance more than those of the current director. 

If he had to go with his gut - and years of doing so had yet to prove him in the wrong - Phil had the right guy. 

As it was, though, there was no evidence to support his theory. Evidence was what SHIELD would want. Phil couldn't exactly base the whole continuation of the op on his gut alone - no matter how much sway that would have with Fury. The one he had to convince didn't exactly take stock in gut feelings. 

So, evidence. 

That's what led Phil to standing in the middle of the owner's apartment at a disgustingly early hour of the day after staying up all night to find the precise time that Clint - hopefully Barton - took his one eyed dog for a walk. 

Clint's apartment was messy. The sort of messy that Phil could draw conclusions to. Practically raised in a barn, no steady or stable adult supervision during formidable years, the typical apartment of a twenty something that had too much money, no foreseeable worries, and way too much time on his hands. There were empty pizza boxes piled next to the trash, an half filled coffee pot on the kitchen counter with no coffee mugs in sight. He had a better television than Phil did in his actual apartment, a sound bad sitting on the floor instead of mounted to the wall where it was supposed to be, movies strewn in front of that sound bar where anyone could walk on them and break the discs in half, a dog bed under the window that would get the best direct sunlight, an old, beat up leather couch that had seen much better days, a refrigerator full of surprisingly healthy foods, a bag of almost empty dog food, and a box of dog treats on top of the fridge. His bed was more clean that Phil expected from the look of the living room - almost as though he never really spent any time in the bed. 

And there it was - the piece of proof Phil needed to make staying in this shitty apartment building and tailing this one apartment building owner worth it. It was sitting on the bedside table, flipped upside down and with a cracked glass obscuring the picture. Almost like someone had thrown it and then thought better of it. The frame was old and the picture it encased even older still. The edges were burnt, a line of black soot shooting through the face of a big man with a shock of bright red hair and a heavy hand on each boy's shoulder. An intentional fire that was set to an image of a perhaps better day. 

In front of the man were two boys, one taller and one skinner. One with a big smile and the other with a grimace. One with bright red hair to match the big man and one with a dirty blonde flop on his forehead. Both with clear blue eyes and freckles over their noses that were identically broken. 

Hawkeye and his brother. 

Phil took a picture with his Blackberry and put the frame back where it had been, face down and ignored like it caused physical pain to look at. 

He continued his exploration, moving to the open closet where clothes spilled out and onto the floor. 

There was an overflowing laundry basket inside, plain colored t-shirts and boxers piled high. There were sweatshirts and duffle bags on the floor. Nothing was hanging up - like Clint didn't actually have the energy or time to bother with hanging the objects up. Tucked in a far corner was a bag of dog toys in a plastic bag that the dog had clearly gotten into, and under that was a stuffed lion with a missing eye - a piece of childhood. 

Phil didn't find much of consequence aside from that one picture but that was enough to secure at least a few more weeks of the op. 

"That's all I can guarantee, Coulson." Fury had said over video chat that same day. "We need contact with the Hawk." 

"Yes sir." 

_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

He met the Hawk by consequence a few days later. He was coming out of his apartment at five in the morning to start his morning run, a bag of trash in hand and tripped over where he was sitting in the hallway, legs splayed out in front of him and head bowed. 

The man jerked awake and Phil caught himself on the wall. It was more commotion than there should have been for so early in the morning, and it seemed to wake the dog of the apartment up if his barking was anything to go by. "Aw, shit, sorry." The man pulled himself up to a shaking stand. 

He was taller than Phil by under an inch, filled out with muscle that could only been developed from years of hard work. His face held a grimace and Phil was glad that the Hawk didn't possess any superhuman ability to hear how fast his heart was beating in his chest. "Are you okay?" Phil came to himself, taking note of the bloody knuckles and pale sheen to his face as he wavered where he stood, leaning heavily against the wall. 

Inside the dog kept barking. 

"Fine, fine." The man waved the concern off. 

"You were just sitting in the hallway." 

A crooked smile that was unfairly handsome for someone that looked ready to fall over. "Yeah, got tired of waiting." 

"Waiting?"

The door swung open, effectively cutting their conversation off short. 

If anyone thought the Hawk was handsome had clearly never seen his brother. With sleep mused hair and tanned skin that was scattered with freckles and a band aide posted over the bridge of his nose he was probably the most dangerous thing Phil had ever seen. He was young, unfairly young to own an apartment building, and his arms strained when he pulled the collar of the golden back as to stop him from sprinting towards the now open apartment door. He seemed shocked to see the two of them standing there - Phil in basketball shorts and a grey Ranger t-shirt and the Hawk with blood covered clothes and a sheepish grin on his face. "Hey, bro." 

"You sound like a mobster." His voice was a tad bit too loud, almost like he couldn't hear himself to regulate the volume. "Lucky, chill." He pulled the dog again and the golden sat back on his haunches, tongue lolling out of his mouth and head tilted in curiosity. "Hi Phil." 

Phil startled only for a moment. He didn't actually expect the owner to know who he was by sight. They had only met once, anyway. "Good morning." 

It was silent after that. Awkward and heavy. 

The brothers looked at each other, communicating without words in a way that Phil knew came with practice and years of knowing each other. He communicated the same way with his own siblings, anyway. "Coffee?" The Hawk asked miserably. 

A beat. "Sure." 

He stepped aside and Phil was treated to the light of a television screen flowing on the coffee brown couch, a purple throw blanket bunched at the foot and a pillow proving his earlier theory of the bed rarely being used. "See you around, Phil." His hand closed around the Hawk's forearm to steady him as he walked forward without a wall to support his weight. 

"See you, Clint." 

The door shut and Phil stopped recording on his phone. 

_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Phil's woken up by yelling that same night. It's coming very obviously through the thin walls and coming from the hallway. He hears barking from Lucky, and a commotion that sounds suspiciously like breaking glass.

Below him, Phil can just make out a frantic call to the police in Spanish, kids crying and walls shaking.

He grabbed his side arm from the bedside table, and barely thinking about the fact that he was currently barefoot and wearing only boxers threw himself into the hallway, meeting the fray head on.

Slumped against the stairway wall is a tall, burley man with a head that was way too shiny in the single hallway light out cold. Even more confusing to Phil at such an early hour – he’s wearing a bright red matching tracksuit and pure white Nike sneakers. Gun stretched in front of him, Phil edged forward, startled by the door swung wide open on apartment 411.

Inside it’s messier than it had been before. The coffee table is overturned, the dog bed empty and television smashed. The coffee pot was broken glass on the carpet, the glass edges dripping blood and staining the plush white. The remote was smashed, batteries strewn by the open window.

Phil only stopped for a moment to wonder what had happened in the apartment because that was all he was granted. A body went flying through the closed bedroom door, wood splintering under its weight. Whoever it was had a shotgun hole in his chest, dead on impact with the floor. His tracksuit matched the body in the hallway.

“Bro!” An accented voice yelled. “What did you do that for, bro!”

Phil peered around the corner, not sure what he expected to see.

“Where is my dog.” It was asked through gritted teeth, a double barrel shotgun in the hands of someone that looked way too experienced to be so young.

“Our dog first, bro.”

“Pay up, bro.” Said the other man in a red tracksuit, this one closer to the window and holding a matching shotgun in his own hands.

“Put the gun down.” Phil ordered from his spot next to the door.

The tracksuit man closest to the window seemed trigger happy – his gun shooting with a loud bang. Phil jumped backwards and Clint swore audibly. “Stop shooting up my apartment!” He yelled and pulled the trigger of his own gun.

Stuck, it didn’t go off.

Phil aimed his own to shoot but was too slow.

He blinked as the man went down, the shotgun Clint had been previously holding smacking him audibly in the forehead.

"Where. Is. My. Dog." Clint turned to the only tracksuit left standing. "Bro." 

The man trembled but said nothing. "I'd uh… I'd tell him where the dog is." Phil unhelpfully supplied, not daring to lower his gun. 

"I don't know, bro." The man whimpered pathetically. 

"Wrong answer." A knife - where did he get a knife - appeared in the man's throat, blood spurting as he fell to the ground. 

Phil kept his gun up, though it was trained on Clint now, steady and aimed true. "You didn't take my dog." Clint stated. 

Clint was bleeding from his forehead and had a nasty looking bruise forming on his right cheek bone. They were alone in the apartment and, in the distance Phil could hear sirens. "Where's your brother?" 

Clint sputtered and looked around himself for what seemed like the first time. "Aw, come on Barney."


	2. Bottom of the River

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter inspired by Bottom of the River by Delta Rae

Clint pegged his new tenant as a Suit on the first day. On Philip Morris's rent application it has listed High School History teacher as his career which was a convenient excuse to not be working during the summer. His references were too good for Clint's dilapidated apartment building - a little too perfectly crafted. People with good rent histories didn't want to rent from Clint. People with good, steady, well paying jobs didn't want to live in Clint's low rent, bad neighborhood falling apart apartment building. 

Philip Morris was sneaky - clearly he had a lot of training - but Clint had something he didn't: trust of the tenants. When Philip casually tossed into conversation a question about Clint or even went as far as to ask about Barney the tenants came to Clint. "He's nice," Joanna said over spaghetti and vegan meatballs. "Just nosy." 

Dangerous? 

Well, that really was the real question. Clint had thrown off reporters, lawyers, and social workers for years. 

It was only logical that Clint broke into his apartment. 

It smelled like pineapples and citrus soap - that was the first thing Clint noticed. The walls were spotlessly empty, the oven shining and clean. Almost like no one had cooked on it. Which was untrue, of course, if Clint hadn't felt the fire alarm shaking the walls just a few days before. 

Sneakers were kicked off in a stick straight line against the entryway wall, stupidly clean for someone who ran daily. Philip had no personal items - no cutlery, no dishes, and only the necessary cooking materials of a college dorm. His bedsheets were pulled tight over the edges, pillows perfectly fluffed and blankets folded so well that all the edges matched up. 

Clint had never served anywhere, but he did know what the homes of those that had looked like. 

Clint had plenty of experience in having something to hide, though and damn if Philip Morris didn't make it blatantly obvious that he did too. 

-_-_-_-_-_-

Barney came to visit with a concussion, a broken hand, and a stab wound in his shoulder. 

"He's looking for you." Barney warned with Clint bent over his knuckles, tweezers between his fingers and eyes narrowed in concentration as he picked out glass from the skin. 

"Hmm?" Clint hadn't actually heard him. He knew Barney had spoken by a buzz to his eardrum and Lucky's ear perking back from his spot on the dog bed. Under the window was a convenient spot for him - for a one eyed dog Lucky was a great lookout for anything that sounded out of the ordinary. Usually he heard it before Clint did and would wake him up or grab his attention through a combination of barking and pulling at his clothes with his teeth. 

Clint looked up, made eye contact with the multitudes of white lined scars that made up his big brother's face. Some of them were old - like the one just above his lip from their dad's fist - and most of them were new. "Trick." Barney said slowly. Enunciating. 

"Oh." Clint swallowed and went back to the task at hand. "Add him to the list." 

"Clint." Barney grabbed his chin by his calloused fingers. Made him look up. 

Clint didn't hear it, but he could tell by the way Lucky stood with his tail down now that he was growling. "I'm listening, Barn." He shook his head from his grip, wiggled his fingers to welcome Lucky forward, his arms around the dog's chest and fingers buried in soft fur. 

"This is serious." Barney's eyes never left his, guaranteeing they stayed glued to his chapped lips to make sure he got every word. "He's not going to stop this time." 

Clint shrugged with one shoulder. "Why's it matter, anyway?" He posed. "I quit. No more Hawkeye." 

"You know it's not that easy."

"I'm not going back, Barney." 

"You might not have a choice." 

Clint called bullshit. "What does that mean?" 

Barney said nothing. Lucky's tail beat the floor between his feet. He growled when Barney reached out a bloodied hand for him to smell. "Your new neighbor." 

"Phil?" 

"Who's he work for?" 

"Some school," Clint shrugged. "He's a nice guy. Just moved out here from Colorado." 

The lie came easy. 

That night, after a few beers - when Barney was tucked up in Clint's bed and Clint laid on the couch, Dog Cops on and Lucky snoring between his legs, Clint reached under the table and squeezed the bug Barney had planted there until it popped between his fingers. 

That was the thing about Barney. 

You couldn't trust him as far as you could throw him. 

-_-_-_-_-_-

Clint met Lucky by accident. It had been cold out, nearly winter, and he was on his way back to the apartment after grabbing a quick bite to eat with Eliza (or at least that was what she was calling herself this time). He was in a suit and had stopped on his way back home for pizza because, if he were to be honest, the food at the restaurant Eliza had brought him had tasted like cardboard. 

And Clint had eaten actual cardboard before. 

He knew he had just been eye candy for Eliza that night. Someone to help her blend in with the crowd. But honestly he didn't mind. She was a good friend to have in his pocket and she had slid him an IOU when she kissed him goodnight. 

Clint didn't hear the whimper, or the voices yelling in the distance. But he had seen a dog come barreling towards him, no leash, fear on his face and a man with a bright red tracksuit pointing a gun. 

Usually, Clint was one to ignore neighborhood problems. 

But when someone hurt an animal… well... he couldn't just let that happen outside of his apartment building. 

The tracksuit didn't know what hit him. 

While Clint was nowhere near as deadly as Eliza with his bare hands he wasn't exactly useless. He had the guy knocked out faster than tracksuit even registered what had happened. 

"Hey doggy." Clint knelt down, held out his hand, and begged the dog to come forward. 

It was shaking when it did, but licked at his pizza grease covered fingers after a moment's hesitation. 

The rest, so they say, was history. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

And that, more or less, led them to now. 

Clint was barely breathing while Phil was breathing heavily. "Why did they take your dog?" It was a good question, one that Clint obviously hadn't thought of. He was a bit more caught up in the where than the why. He liked to focus on what he could control rather than the motivations. 

Motives never got you what you wanted in his line of business. It only led to more messed up feelings and so much bad karma it was a wonder he was even still alive. "Ask them." 

"... they're a little… dead." 

Shouldn't have touched his dog then. 

Clint didn't feel guilty, even as he stepped over their bodies and looked out the window. 

Below were flashing lights that lit up his white washed walls. Police. 

For the average person this was a good thing. 

For Clint, well, this was very very bad. "What alphabet agency do you work for?" He made sure to keep his gaze on Phil's reflection in the window. 

"I work for a school." 

"Right." Clint rolled his eyes. "And all school teachers just carry around guns." 

"I have a license." 

"And I don't have time." Clint turned around to face him head on. Honestly, Philip Morris was attractive in an all American Boy sort of way. Close cropped hair, toned body, that voice that made him want to say sir yes sir. Any other day Clint would revel in letting him play up his act. But not today. Not with Lucky on the line. "You might want to call your guys. Explain what happened." 

"What did happen, exactly?" Phil put his gun down, but frowned. It pulled at his eyes. Made him look older than Clint was sure he was. 

"They took my dog." 

"Who are they?" 

"Tracksuit Mafia." 

"What?" 

"I don't know their actual name." Clint bent down, rifled in the pockets of the guy that had gotten a knife to the throat. He found his gun and slipped it into the back of his jeans. 

"You can't-."

"Listen," Clint rolled his eyes. "I gotta go now so… uhm… sorry about this." 

"About what?" 

Too late, Phil realized what Clint was going to do. He was knocked out only a second later by the butt of a gun, his own pocketed as well. Clint winced and caught him on his way down, resting him gently on the carpet. He took the opportunity to, quickly, grab his wallet, selfishly looking for answers to his questions when he didn't have the time. 

Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division. S. H. I. E. L. D. 

Huh. 

Clint hadn't heard of them before. 

With the cops piling up outside Clint put the ID back. Phil would need it more than Clint anyway. 

The trash room was his next stop and Clint reached up to unscrew the air vent. It popped off with a metallic clang Clint felt in his arms and he pulled down his duffle bag bounty. 

A fake ID, passport and persona. 

A bow and quiver. 

Clint sighed and zipped it shut, throwing it over his shoulder. 

Hawkeye had work to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When Phil wakes up how will he explain himself to Fury? Will Clint ever not make stupid decisions? And how, exactly, are they going to explain what happened in that Cold Stone to anyone that asks? 
> 
> Find out tomorrow!

**Author's Note:**

> Will Lucky Dog be found safe and sound? Will Phil survive the Tracksuit Mafia? How many people will Clint kill for them kidnapping his dog?


End file.
